Black Hearts
by TomParis7
Summary: Moriarty/John. An AU Suggested by a friend and were Jim saves John's life and love sparks. ANGST and also some fluff. ENJOY!


_**I don't own Sherlock characters!**_

_Dedicated to __alpacamycroftbooty_

_His breath was coming in searing gasps_. He feet hit the pavement hard as he ran. He scaled a fence and began to run faster, feeling his legs and lungs burning in protest, telling him to stop. But he kept running, down a winding path and into the woods. He then began to run in zigzags, but he heard heavy footfalls behind him and then the whizz of a bullet as it past his head, barley missing him. Ducking, he turned sharply in the other direction, and heard the man behind him correct his footing. John rolled under a bush and hid there, brambles jabbing him in the back. He stayed hidden while he heard the man's footsteps run past him. John let out a sigh and then his phone exploded into sound in his pocket. He crushed and dug into his jacket jabbing the end call button.  
But too late. The hit man was running back toward the sound and John bolted out of the bush, scraping his arms and legs as he did. He felt his old wound seizing up around his leg. John hissed at the pain in his leg and tried to run the other direction but lost his footing. He fell face first into the cold, hard dirt. Heart thumping fast, John swiveled around and was going to scramble to his feet when his heart stopped. Standing above him was a man and John was looking directly down into the barrel of his gun.

"Got you." He whispered. John backed up slowly, but John knew it was too late. He was going to die, and no one was here to save him.

"Bye." The hit man said coldly. He wrapped his finger around the trigger and  
BANG!  
He fell forward, blood gushing from his chest, onto John. John moved out of the way and looked around wildly. There stood holding a still smoking gun aloft, his savior.

"Jim? Jim Moore?" John asked, incredulous. The man smirked and his eyes locked onto John's. then he nodded and strode forward. Holding out his hand John grasped it, grimacing at the pain in his leg. Jim grasped John with both shoulders and looked him up and down.

"It is good to see you." Jim murmured, pulling John into a hug. John clapped him on the back and then they broke apart.

"What in the hell are you doing here?" John asked, a little shaken.

"I was in town visiting family when I heard from Mike that you were back from Afghanistan!"

"Really? And how in the bloody hell did you find me?"

"I saw you running down the path and then I saw that other bloke chasing you. So I followed."

"And what, just happened upon a gun?"

Jim looked down at the pistol in his hands and chuckled, "This old thing? I got it for work."

"Where do you work?" John asked, putting his hands on his hips.

"MI6."

John's mouth fell open. "No."

"Yes." Jim smirked at the look on his face.

"Ok. So… You happen to have a gun and you also happened to just stumble upon me and save my life?" John repeated incredulously.

"Yeah…" Jim agreed, "Pretty crazy right?"

John puffed up his cheeks and blew out a steam of air. Then he glanced at Jim and then snorted out laughter. Jim joined in and soon they were bent double in laughter. It finally died down and then John looked up eyes watering.

"So tell me," John began, "What gets a man like you, who trained at a local college mind, get into MI6?"

"It's a long story…" Jim said, his eyes looking into something that John couldn't see. "And maybe you want to discuss it over drinks?"

John suddenly noticed that they were in the middle of the woods, with a dead body next to them, discussing a date. John chuckled and touched his shirt, "I'm covered in blood. And there is a body here. Maybe we should get out of here."

Jim seemed to notice this as well and so he nodded and turned to leave. John went to follow when he felt another painful jolt in his left leg, making him cry out in pain.

"John?" Jim turned and grabbed his arm to steady him. John was breathing deeply and ghostly pale.

"It's just my leg…" John muttered, grunting in pain as Jim helped him out of the woods and back into the park. The sun was setting now over the towering London buildings.

"Shall I call a cab?" Jim asked, his arm still in John's.

"Yeah, that would be good." John muttered, embarrassed to have to cling onto Jim like this. Jim led him to a bench and then pulled out his phone. It was a small black phone that looked a lot like Sherlock's. This made John jolt back into reality and he actually jumped.

Jim shot him a look of confusion and John pulled out his own phone. He saw 6 texts from Sherlock there and he was the one who had called him and given away his cover. Jim got off of the phone and looked down at John, who's face was mixed in concern.

"You alright?" He asked the doctor.

"Wha- yeah." John said, sliding his phone shut and shoving it back in his pocket.

"The cab is on its way." Jim said. John nodded as Jim sided onto the bench next to him. "So tell me John Watson." Jim began, "Why was a man with a gun trying to kill you."

John sighed as the day's events came back to him. He told Jim about going to a crime scene that morning.

"Wait-" Jim stopped him, "Are you working at the yard now? I thought you were a doctor."

"Oh I still am, but my flat mate works for the yard. And I solve cases with him sometimes."

Jim' face seem to fall at the word _'flat mate' _

"So you're seeing him, are you. This flat mate of yours?"

John actually laughed at this, "Oh god no. Him and me, no. He's a little to strange for my taste."

Jim smiled at that. "Well, have you ever thought of… oh I don't know. _Seeing old flames?"_

John tilted his head to one side and a small grin creped up his face.

"Oh I don't know. _Have you?"_

"Oh yeah." Jim said, putting his arm around John, "Loads of times."

The rest of the night was a blur of emotions for John. He took the cab to a bar in central London. They spent the next few hours talking about things including the war, old school days, and John's new flat.

"So how long have you been living there?"

"About 5 months now." John said, taking a sip of his beer.

"And this bloke, you like him?"

"He's…." John fished for the right word but then gave up, "Bloody insane. But he has money so that's always good."

Jim raised his glass and said, "here, here." John smiled and downed his third pint. The conversation moved to Jim' work.

"So what's it like?"

"What's what like?"

"The MI6!" John yelled, slopping beer down his front.

"Will you keep your voice down?" Jim implored, handing John a napkin. John whipped off his now blood and beer spilled shirt and looked back up at Jim.

"So." He whispered, "What's it like?"

"It's… hard to manage some times. I've got a lot of employees at my hand who I have to manage. And then there's all those little problems."

"Like."

"Stupid people." Jim said, disgruntled.

"You sound just like him."

"Who-?"

"Anyway, what do you say we go for a walk."

"John." Jim said, grabbing his hand and looking him directly in the eye. "Your on your 6th pint, I don't think you can even walk at this point." Jim smiled as John hiccupped. They were silent for a few minutes, the only noises of others in the bar and the clanking of glasses. Then John's friend broke the silence.

"Your not happy… are you John?"

"'Course I am." John replied.

"Really? Because, you look like hell."

John laughed slightly and shook his head.

"It's not that big of a deal."

"Oh come on. You can tell me, you know that right?"

"Well, it's just that… coming back from Afghanistan and getting shot, and stumbling upon this random bloody detective. And moving in with him… it's all a lot to take in. And the only way I can cope is by drinking. So I'm kind of used to being his drunk."

"Well you are pretty smashed." Jim shook his head. "Look, and if there's anything you need me to do. I am close by now. I'm just in the city, about 10 blocks from here."

"Well I'm at Baker Street, so you can just find me there." John nodded, but didn't notice the flash of surprise cross his face before it vanished.

Jim paid for the drinks and supported John out of the pub and into the dark street. John was now pretty drunk and having trouble walking on his own. Jim leaned him aginst the wall and went to hail a cab.

"There's one, John come on." Jim hollered to him. He helped John up to the curb and then turned to him. "Listen. Call me tomorrow, ok? Maybe we can meet up for a real dinner closer to your flat?"

"You mean like a date?"

"Yes." Jim agreed, "a date. Is that alright with you?"

"Sure." John nodded, "it will be just like old times eh?"

Jim nodded then hugged John. "Be careful getting home." John nodded and then got into the cab.

"Baker Street please." John said to the cabbie, slurring his words slightly.

John stumbled up the stairs ten minutes later to the sound of Sherlock running around the flat. John clumsily opened the door and stumbled into the room.

"John!" Sherlock yelled. It turned out his running was only pacing. There were indents in the floor where Sherlock had paced back and fourth for hours, waiting for John to return.

"Where in the hell have you been?"

"Out." John said casually, not feeling like telling him about Jim just yet.

"Out." Sherlock repeated coldly, "Out? John I called you over 25 times."

"Really?" Said John, slightly surprised and pulling out his phone. Sure enough, there were 25 missed calls from the Detective.

"So- are you doing to tell me where you have been for the past 8 hours or do I have to deduce it for you."

"I'm sure you already know, so there's no need telling you." John said, holding onto things in his way to the kitchen.

"Well, your quite drunk, so pub, but your shirt is mixed with blood, not yours, that would indicate you were walking around a bloody person, maybe you killed them, but not likely. And then there's the leaves. There in your hair and on your clothes, saying that you mostly likely fell into a bush or tree. Your limp is also acting up so that means you were running in a stressful situation. So John, _whom_ were you running from and why are you drunk?"

"One of our suspects hit men. And I decided to get a drink after. With a friend from college."

Sherlock looked up from his pacing to stare at John. "Good lord." He remarked, "You are drunk. I suggest you go to bed and we'll talk about this in the morning. Goodnight John." And with that, Sherlock began to push John up the stairs and made sure he was safely in bead, asleep, before traipsing back down to his own room. Worried, Sherlock settled back into his arm chair, hoping his flat mate was alright.

…

The next few days past in quick precession. John would work a case with Sherlock during the day, and see Jim at night. They would go to nice dinners or just walks along the streets. Those days grew into weeks, and weeks into months until the sky's of London were hinting summer.

John waked hand in hand with Jim, down a long winding street, passing dimly lit streets as they walked. Jim then pulled John into the next alley.

"Jim, what are you-?"

But before he could say another word, Jim was kissing him full on the face. John was startled at first but quickly sank into him, kissing him back. They stood in the alley, hands all over each other, kissing so passionately. John's hands were in Jim's hair and Jim was grabbing John arse. They stayed like that for some time, until they broke apart, gasping for air.

"Jim." John began, but he hushed him.

"Don't ruin the moment John. Just listen." And John stopped talking and strained his ears.

"What am I listening for I-"

"It's raining." Jim whispered and he grabbed Johns and led him out of the alley. It had begun to rain on the pavement, the tiny droplets smacking the ground and making little patter noises. John closed his eyes and simply stood there, feeling Jim's warm hand in his, and the cold rain on his face.

They walked back an half and hour later and went into Jim's flat. After opening the wine, they talked for some time, not about much, but a casual conversation. Then John eyes began to dart to Jim's lips and back up again. Jim was doing the same until they were glued together again. They kissed as Jim pulled John's shirt over his head. John lifted his arms and let his shirt fall to the ground. They then made their way to the bedroom, and slamming the door behind them.

…..

"Why didn't you come home last night?" Came Sherlock's voice from the kitchen the next day. John didn't reply but just continued to spread jam on his toast.

"John?" Sherlock popped his head in. John flashed him a smile but didn't say anything. He didn't know why he wasn't telling Sherlock. Maybe it felt more sacred this way.

"I'm going to work." John murmured and headed out of the flat.

One month later, Sherlock and John headed to the Yard to look at a letter that was put in a lock box in the exploding flat across from Baker Street. John, having been unceremoniously ripped from bed by the noises of the explosion and Sherlock's excited yells was tired and disgruntled. He accompanied him to the Yard but was silent the whole cab ride there.

The case persisted with a frightened voice of a caller strapped to a bomb, saying that if Sherlock didn't solve the case, they would die in 6 hours. John was too distracted to call Jim that night, because Sherlock kept asking him for help and then disagreeing with everything John suggested. Feeling tired and annoyed, John went to bed, hoping that Sherlock would solve the case in time for the poor bastard.

John tried calling Jim the next day, but got his voicemail. Then deciding he would go to see him, he texted him that night saying that he was coming over. He didn't get a response but wanted to see Jim quite a lot. So he took a cab and headed inside. He knocked sharply on the door and waited. Jim's face appeared, white and pale.

"Oh I John." Jim began, "Look, this isn't a good time."

"Jim-? You ok?"

"What…" Jim murmured, clearly distracted, "yes fine. Fine. Look, I'll call you later on this week ok? I'm a bit wrapped up in calls at the moment."

John nodded and trudged back down the stairs, slightly disappointed. But Jim didn't call the next day, nor the next. And Sherlock kept solving this psycho's riddles and saving most of the lives, except the old woman. John and Sherlock then waited for the call of the next person, both very anxious.

"Look. I'm going to go grab some dinner. You want anything while I'm out?" John asked Sherlock. He was snuggled on the couch, the light of the telly reflected on his pale face. "I'm fine." He replied. John shrugged and then pulled on his coat. Stepping out of the flat, he closed his door and started walking down the street. He wasn't really going to grab dinner, but he wanted to go talk to Jim, see what was wrong and how he could help. It wasn't until the cab was pulled along side him did John notice that the driver was talking to him.

"Hey mate, you want a lift."

"No thanks, I'm going to take the tube." I said, figuring it was faster, and plus, he had no money on him.

"I wasn't asking. I was telling you." The driver said. That's when John noticed the man was holding a gun, pointed directly at him. John got in the cab, feeling his heart racing. He got into the cab and heard a familiar voice behind him.

"I'm so sorry, but it has to be done." And then felt something enormous and metal hit him in the back of the head, knocking him out cold.

John's eyes flickered open, the smell of chlorine reaching his nostrils. He lifted up his head and looked around. He was in the sport centre, at the swimming pool. He felt something heavy strapped to his chest and realized with a jolt that it was a bomb. Breath quickening John looked around wildly, then heard a soft voice in his ear.

"Repeat every word I tell you too or you wont live to walk of here. You understand?"

_That voice_. John thought, _but it couldn't be._

"And if you say a word that I don't tell you, I will blow you to pieces."

John felt like all of the blood was draining from his body. That voice was the one John had considered to love, to care, and hope for. But what on earth was it doing telling him to talk or die. What was going on?

The voice told him to walk into the pool area. And John did, feeling the bomb uncomfortably under his large jacket. Hands in his pockets, John stepped out. There stood Sherlock, facing the other direction holding a small flash drive in his hand.

_What was he doing here?"_

"Evening." The voice made John say.

"John?" Sherlock asked incredulously, his eyes widening in fear and hatred. "What are you-"

"Bet you never saw this coming." John repeated. And then it told him to open his large coat. John abridges, feeling his legs shaking with fear and worry. John saw Sherlock's eyes grow larger with fear and understanding. Sherlock's eyes traced the red dot circling John's chest, ready to pull the trigger if necessary. Then they heard a door at the corner creek open.

"I John's number… I thought you might call." And it was, John turned to see the face of Jim Moore, the man whom he had been seeing for months, and kissing and shagging… he was the one who had strapped him to a bloody bomb. John was now shaking with anger and hatred. But Jim didn't even look at him.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi… Jim? Jim as in John's lover? Did I really give that much of a fleeting impression." He paused. "Well I guess that was rather the point." There was a total silence and Jim's footsteps echoed as he advanced around the pool.

"Is that a browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me."

"Both." Sherlock growled, pulling out the gun and pointing it straight at Jim.

"I have loved this. This little game of ours, playing John's tiny little boyfriend, even playing _gay_. Did you like the touch with the kiss, Sherlock? Saying as you follow John _everywhere. _Why not make him fall in love with me over and over again. I mean, it worked in College, why not now?"

John felt his hands shaking with the weight of what he was hearing. Did Jim really not care about him? Was all of this just to get to Sherlock? Did Jim not love John the way he loved him? Was it all a lie? John felt dizzy from all of the questions, his tongue burning to ask them, but knowing he couldn't speak. Sherlock shot a worried glance John's way, as though thinking John would do something rash, Sherlock turned back to Moriarty.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"I've just been showing you what I can do. I cut loose all of those people, all those _little problems_. Even got John to shag me so you could come out and play."

There was something about the word 'little problems' that struck at John. Then he remembered their conversation from that first night so many months ago.

_'And then there's all those little problems'_

So it was true. Jim was playing him from the start. Jim Moore wasn't even his real name.

"People have died." Sherlock spat.

"That's what people DO!" Moriarty yelled, advancing forward. "But the play is over, daddy's had enough now." He said in a singsong voice. John felt a shiver run down his spine. His mind was racing as he thought through strategies in his head. Jim and Sherlock kept talking and it was then when Jim approached that John decided to put his plan into action, not really caring at this point what happened to him.

"Oh the missile plans!" Jim grabbed the hard drive from Sherlock's pale fingers. "Boring! I could have gotten them anywhere." And he launched them into the pool. John yelled,

"Sherlock duck!" And he grabbed the gun from Sherlock's hands, turned it to Moriarty and shot him square in the chest. Time seemed to freeze and then Jim was falling backwards. He hit the ground and then began to bleed all over the ground. John's struggled forward as Sherlock ran to go get the other snipers. John looked down at the bleeding man whom he thought loved him and saw him shaking out of shock.

"J-john" Moriarty gasped. John couldn't help himself. With tears in his eyes, he fell to his knees next to him.

"Why Jim…. Why do this to me? Do you not love me."

"I had t-to." Jim spluttered, blood gushing from his mouth.

"Why?"

"John. I wanted to protect you. But it was my job. I had to get rid of Sherlock. So I had to get close to you… b-but I didn't bank on f-falling in love with you, John. And I-I'm so s-sorry. I…I love y-you." And with that Jim Moriarty was dead. John knelt down and laid on top of him, crying into his wound. For now, people were dying all around John, without reason, and John felt the weight of that as he lay there. He felt his black and blue heart, beating wretchedly inside him. And he hated it, he just wanted to rip out his black and ashen heart, to stop it from pulsing through him. He wanted to pain and betrayal and love to stop. For who could live with such as the weight that John felt at this moment. Who?

John lay there for hours. And days, and he never wanted to let go of the thing he had ruined, the man he had riddled with holes. The man whom he had loved, then destroyed.


End file.
